


for the grace of you go i

by andsoitgoes



Series: leave yourself intact (i will be coming back) [3]
Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Graphic Description, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:46:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andsoitgoes/pseuds/andsoitgoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras wishes he had tattooed <i>return as borrowed</i> on Grantaire's forehead.</p><p>Animorphs!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	for the grace of you go i

**Author's Note:**

> A couple quick scenes from this 'verse. All mistakes are mine, and feedback is lovely :)
> 
> Title is taken from Simon and Garfunkel's _Kathy's Song_.

“When you morph, you just go right back into your body, right?” Enjolras asks, interrupting the easy silence in his bedroom. Grantaire had come over right after class, desperate to have some quiet time alone with Enjolras while he attempts his Art History paper. Enjolras has been fairly subdued all afternoon, content to let Grantaire work on his homework with few interruptions. Obviously, his silence has been less decompression time and more thinking of the war.

Grantaire shakes his head, rubbing his cheek against Enjolras’ arm as he does so, propped up next to him on the pillows. “It restores your body back to basics, really. I think it has something to do with original DNA. Bahorel lost his tattoo when he first morphed, Cosette lost her piercings, and my scar from that bar fight went away. It’s weird.”

They rest in silence for a moment, Enjolras’ hand carding through dark curls as he starts to speak again. “Imagine what that could mean for medicine. Cancer patients, accident victims, homicide…”

“You think we should put the cube back together and give out the ability?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Not necessarily.” He’s quiet for a moment, and Grantaire lets him churn over his thoughts. For all of his lightning speed comebacks, Enjolras sometimes needs a minute to compose his sentences, the unfortunate side effect of someone whose mind moves even quicker than his mouth. “I think that some people might take advantage of the ability. Not everyone is as good as you are, Grantaire. There are people out there who would jump at this opportunity and use it for terrible things.” Grantaire hums an agreement, content to ignore his homework and lie here forever, so long as Enjolras is warm and solid and keeps playing with his hair. “Not even criminals or politicians, either. Anyone with a vendetta and the ability to become anything they’ve ever dreamed of… that’s dangerous.”

For one fleeting, breathless moment, Grantaire wonders if Enjolras would be one of those people; if he would be able to stop himself from manipulating people into agreement, or hurting them when threatened. The thought is quick, too quick to grab onto, but it settles itself in the pit of Grantaire’s stomach, pressing uncomfortably against his side. He thinks of Enjolras, loving and passionate Enjolras who has devoted his life to an upstream battle against for equality but is still able to give himself fully and confidently to Grantaire, and the overwhelming surge of _trust_ for his boyfriend all but dissolves that knot.

\---

Some time later, he wakes up under a blanket with his head on a pillow, the spirals of his notebook digging into his arm. Enjolras is curled next to him, face impassively watching the muted television as his fingers stroke Grantaire’s palm, resting over Enjolras’ ribs.

Grantaire wonders how he managed to get so lucky, and shuffles closer to Enjolras, nose to long, graceful neck. He stays quiet a minute, just breathing in his beautiful boy and feeling Enjolras’ pulse flutter in just one spot before remembering his abandoned paper.

“Oh God,” he moans, bones sinking limp into the mattress as Enjolras’ hand stills at his voice. “My work. What time is it?”

“Don’t worry,” Enjolras says softly, hand moving to Grantaire’s hair, tugging gently at curls in its path. “I did it for you. Go back to sleep, R.”

Grantaire is still half asleep and fuzzy-minded, and he squints up at Enjolras. “But you hate art history.”

“I’m going to help you,” Enjolras says, purposefully not catching Grantaire’s eyes. “I know that I can’t exactly-“ he gestures at his body and wiggles his fingers. “ _morph_ , or whatever, but I’m helping. If that means doing your homework, or covering for Joly or doing Cosette’s chores, then so be it.”

Grantaire keeps silent for a moment, speaking only when Enjolras finally turns to catch his eyes. “Thank you. You don’t have to, you know… but, thank you.”

“But I _want_ to. We’re in this together.”  
Grantaire’s heart skips a beat, and until this very moment he had been so sure that affection-induced cardiac arrhythmias were just overused clichés in sappy box-office bomb chick flicks.

“I believe in you,” he breathes, fingers catching at the hem of the blanket resting just south of their twisted and tangled bodies, tugging at the edge of fabric until it hit the points of their chins.

“And I believe in you.”

Grantaire bites his lip at the memory of the first time they had this exchange, standing outside a pub with their voices hoarse from fighting all night, and of the few times they’ve repeated it since then. _This_ is their romantic comedy cliché, not missing heartbeats or kiss-induced fireworks but the quiet reminder of iron-clad support and trust and above all, love.

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

When Joly and Feuilly enter the meeting room, he knows immediately that something’s wrong. It’s not that only two returned which sets Enjolras off, as the Animorphs often split off during reconssaince missions. Even toy heroes need to eat, decompress, be surrounded by warmth and love and light for a moment before they go and relieve the others.

No, Enjolras knows that _something is wrong, something is terribly wrong_ because Joly and Feuilly don’t head to the couch or the bathroom. They head right to Enjolras, like missiles trained on their target.

“Was it Cosette?” he asks, and he knows the answer as it leaves his mouth. Joly’s eyes are so, so sad, crow’s feet at the corners that had never been there before all this bullshit.

“Enjolras-” Feuilly starts, one hand moving to rest on Enjolras’ arm. He takes a step back before Feuilly can touch him.

“No. There’s no one else.” He’s imagined this moment since Grantaire had first told him about the battle- in his bed, late at night, he stares at the ceiling and thought of all the ways he could lose Grantaire, how it would end, who would tell him. He had thought it would be a huge, dangerous battle, that he’d be reeling, brain firing neurons at random as he sobbed into Cosette’s shoulder, his throat closing up and his heart slowing until he too was dead, until he was with Grantaire.

He’s never imagined this. His mind is clear, his breaths quiet and even, as though he’d leveled them out with a measuring cup, the _in_ and _out_ as steady as horseshoes on pavement.

“Enjolras, he’s still with us-”Enjolras’ hand is at Feuilly’s throat, and he doesn’t know how it got there.

“Where is he?” Teaspoons of air, _in_ and _out_. Feuilly swallows uncomfortably against Enjolras’ palm. He can feel the stuttering beat of Feuilly’s pulse against the pad of his thumb. Joly holds Enjolras’ wrist with one hand, soft fingers tugging him away from Feuilly’s neck.

“Still in the tunnel. We need you to go into the other room for a little bit, so we can bring him in here.”

Eponine’s hand is at his back, fingertips warm against the cotton of his shirt.

“ _Why aren’t you with him?_ ” he snarls. His hand tightens on Feuilly’s throat momentarily, and he can see Marius moving towards him out of the corner of his eye.

“Is he gone?” Cosette yells from the hallway, and Enjolras is at the door, Eponine’s fist is balled in his shirt and _if she damages the fabric, he will kill her, this is Grantaire’s favorite shirt_. A shadow appears at the doorway. Courfeyrac.

“Dude, what the hell? You were supposed to move them,” he says. Enjolras can’t even focus on the gashes on Courfeyrac’s arm, wine-colored with clotted and dried blood, because there’s Bahorel standing right behind him, cradling a gory and broken mess of fur that Enjolras would recognize anywhere, now, that Enjolras knows is a metallic blend of grey and black and white underneath all of the, _Jesus fucking Christ_ , blood.

There are no words for the emotions that hit Enjolras at all once. He can see bone all along Grantaire’s thigh, long pinkish-white ropes of entrails from his belly cupped in Bahorel’s paw. Marius gasps and Cosette’s at his left side, gripping Enjolras’ shoulder so hard it hurts, but all he can see is the wolf. The rest of the room tunnels out into fuzzy, inconsequential shapes that Enjolras cannot comprehend. There are voices, and someone’s sobbing. He thinks it might be Eponine; her hand has gone slack against his shirt.

He opens his mouth, whether to scream or cry or let out his _last goddamn breath of air because that wolf is Enjolras’ boyfriend, that crumpled mess of fur and intestines and blood is the love of his life, dying, and Enjolras is going to die with him_ , but Bahorel is faster. He lifts one cement-block fist and taps Enjolras gently on the side of the head, and all Enjolras sees is black.

\---

“Can you stop pacing, princess? Your royal hissy fit is _very_ impressive, but I’d like a little break from all the emotional turmoil. The stink of your teenage angst is making it hard to breathe.”

Gavroche nods and rests his forehead on Eponine’s shoulder. “You’re making me dizzy.”

Enjolras freezes mid-step, whirling on Eponine and Gavroche. “Dizzy? I’m sorry- I wouldn’t know anything about being _dizzy_. Oh, wait,” he snarls, snapping his head to Bahorel, who shrugs his shoulders in guilty apology.

( _”A concussion,”_ he had said, once he’d woken up and was brought up to speed. _”You gave me a concussion, Bahorel. Amidst all the riots and missions, this is my first brain injury; you should feel accomplished.”_

Courfeyrac had rolled his eyes, kicking his foot out at Enjolras. “ _It’s barely a concussion. You’ll live._ ”)

 _But I don’t want to just_ live, he’d thought, throat tightening as he tried to swallow, and he can feel the snot and tears worming down the back of his throat to his stomach, curling in bile as a sick reminder of all he could have lost today, _I want to_ thrive. _I want a future, I want a future with Grantaire. I want New York with Grantaire, I want Paris with Grantaire, I want children and a dog and lazy Sundays, all with Grantaire. You can take everything else- my clothes, my car, my dignity, my legs and arms and teeth, but please just leave me Grantaire._

“They’ve been in there for a while,” Jehan says softly from the corner of the room, where he’s resting against Courfeyrac. “Wonder what’s taking so long.”

Eponine sighs loudly, her breath puffing up her bangs. “Joly and Combeferre know what they’re doing. They’re probably just being extra thorough. Nervous med students and all.”

Grantaire had lived. Joly had said that his wounds were terrible, and had they not been able to wake him up and get him to morph out, he would have died in that body. Combeferre said the monster the Animorphs had met was unlike any other they had seen before, with a venom that dissolved tissue like sugar, poison so strong it had left scars on Grantaire’s stomach and thigh after the morph. They wanted to do a more thorough perusal of his body.

 _But,_ Enjolras wants to cry, _I know every inch of that boy’s body. I know every cell on his skin, I’ve memorized the crooks of his elbows and the soft underbelly of his knees. I can tell you the precise measurement of his torso, the angle his jaw makes to his neck. Let me help. Let me be with him._

Enjolras had said nothing then, just nodded and began his pacing around the room. Now, nearly half an hour later, at Eponine’s insistence, he perches on the edge of the leather couch. He thinks of Grantaire on the bed in there, Joly and Combeferre standing around him, poking and prodding and asking questions to _assess his mental state, Enjolras,_ and he bites his thumbnail to the quick.

Another twenty minutes pass before the door creaks. Enjolras is on his feet and at the door before it’s fully open, arms folded tightly across his chest and back ramrod straight. Both of them come through the door, man and alien not affording Enjolras a single peak into the room.

“He wants to see you,” Joly begins, and Enjolras’ chest aches as he begins to push past Combeferre into the room. He’s stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder. “Grantaire’s very tired, Enjolras. Please be gentle; he feels terrible that you’ve been so worried.”

Enjolras swells with rage at the implication that he’d be anything but a slave to Grantaire’s every whim, that he’d do anything but worship this boy whom he had very nearly lost, but he chokes down the anger and nods. Combeferre eases the door open, and Enjolras steps in.

He makes it all the way to the bed before he crumples to the floor, face buried against Grantaire’s side, his fingers clenched into Grantaire’s shirt.

\---

Enjolras finds that time does not exist after tragedies. He spends years curled on the floor next to the bed, sobbing loudly over the quiet murmuring of Grantaire’s voice; he spends centuries curled up on the bed, clutching Grantaire’s head to his chest as he tries to articulate just how much he loves his idiotic martyr of a boyfriend; he spends an eternity inspecting Grantaire’s body, touching every centimeter of flesh with his hands, then his mouth. Satiated, they lie together quietly, legs and hands twisted together as Enjolras rests his cheek against Grantaire’s hair and breathes a silent invocation of _thank you, thank you, thank you_ to whomever might be listening.

“We should get going,” Grantaire mumbles eventually, and Enjolras hums an agreement.

“My house?” he asks, and Grantaire nods. “Where are the others?”

“Combeferre said everyone was going home, and Joly said to make sure we washed the sheets.” Enjolras wrinkles his nose at that, still uncomfortable with all of their friends knowing about and anticipating his sex life. Grantaire grins knowingly. “How’s your head feel?” Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“It’s a little sore. Getting punched by Bahorel is not a scenario I ever want to repeat.” Grantaire snorts at that.

“Combeferre already ripped him a new one about it. Apparently Bahorel almost cried, he felt so bad.” Enjolras scowls, shifting Grantaire a little closer.

“Whatever. Bahorel’s a dead man.” No sooner does the sentence leave his mouth than he regrets it, cursing his serious foot-in-mouth syndrome. _Why hasn’t anyone found a cure for that yet?_

“I almost was,” Grantaire says thoughtfully. A beat passes where Enjolras wants to believe that Grantaire’s going _anywhere_ but here with this conversation, and then Grantaire adds, “A dead man, I mean.”

“Yeah, I got that part,” Enjolras says, but there’s no bite to his words. _Too soon_ , he thinks, _It will always be too soon for this conversation. I just got you back, Grantaire, let me lay in this and soak up as much as I can, let me lick my wounds and let me believe in you, in our friends, in this battle again before you start with this. After this,_ he thinks, _I will hang on every word that comes out of your mouth, forever. I will never miss your phone calls, I will never forget to answer your texts. I will never spend another moment being anything but utterly grateful for every single beat of your heart, for every fiber in your muscles. I will save every single bit of you in me, so that if this ever happens again, I can rebuild you._

Enjolras thinks all of this, and brushes Grantaire’s hair off his forehead. “Let’s get you home, hm? I’ll make you dinner while you shower. I might even let you pick the movie.”

“Can we watch Star Wars?” Grantaire asks with a small smile on his face, and that smile right there hurts so much worse than anything that’s happened this terrible fucking day, an inconceivable smile on the face of a man who had been pulled back from death by the skin of his teeth. All he can do is stare at this beautiful, wonderful boy in front of him, this twenty year old boy who has shouldered the world and never stumbled.

Enjolras thinks _you are incredible_ , says, “If we must,” and doesn’t leave Grantaire’s side all night.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Jehan has several qualms with the Animorphs, not the least of all being Courfeyrac’s involvement in all of it. He hates the secrets and the danger and the time commitment, but there is nothing quite like his contempt for the morphing suits. He has seen much more of Bahorel’s body than he’ll ever be able to remove from his nightmares, and although Feuilly is solid muscle, he would still like to forget the sight of constant wedgie picking. He’s aware that there is little room for fashion in real-life warfare with tense meetings and dangerous missions, but he feels as though this is the final nail in the coffin.

If Jehan’s being honest, he would readily admit that he admires the way Courfeyrac’s morphing suit hugs every curve of his body, thighs and biceps and abs encased in tantalizing spandex that he is forced to stare at during each meeting as he’s expected to pay attention to strategy. Jehan is smug and only a little jealous when Eponine’s eyes linger on Courfeyrac’s ass as his boyfriend demonstrates another potential attack, but he hates running his hands along Courf’s thin t-shirt and feeling the seams of the suit, hiding under the normality of Courfeyrac’s outfit. It’s not just because it is yet another layer between his hands and Courf’s skin, but because it is a constant reminder of the danger they are all in, the danger that Courfeyrac puts himself in daily.

Courfeyrac tells Jehan of the time they had to go to the lake in early February to test their water morphs (a dolphin for Courf is so, so fitting), and Jehan can only think of how cold Courfeyrac must have been, standing in his threadbare workout clothes on the shore of the lake in mid-winter, barefooted in the sand as wind whipped his skin. He thinks of blue lips and how long it must have taken Courfeyrac to warm up afterwards bundled in Grantaire’s vintage car with a terrible heating system, and oh, his heart hurts.

He measures Courfeyrac, researches fabric, and makes a new morphing suit out of the warmest synthetic material he can find, complete with pull-on heat saver booties.

Courfeyrac is quietly grateful when he successfully morphs with his new suit still in tact, and Jehan doesn’t think about the fact that Courfeyrac will only be able to wear this suit next winter if he lives that long.


End file.
